


Growing Pains

by Nenalata



Series: Seeing Red: Tales from the Rory Hawke-Verse [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Baby Names, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Fenhawke Babs, Fenris's Nickname Stuck, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Kid Fic, Loss of Innocence, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Red Hawke (Dragon Age), Roryverse, Sibling Bonding, Venatori, WE'RE LETTING EVERYONE HAVE A FAMILY OKAY, We Get to Tag Character Names Properly in the Future, don't worry there's plenty of ass-kicking n whatever, i made everything up, n sword-swinging whatever, who knows what the future holds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 18:03:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: Kicker didn't know where his mother had learned to move so sneaky with her knives, or why his father would sometimes look very far into the air without seeing anything, or why their house had an escape door covered in traps, or why they all lived in a tiny part of Nevarra even though their friends had to travel a long way to visit.Kicker did know that his parents were letting him choose his own name, and heneededto pick a good one his parents and baby siblings could be proud of.Note: 90% of this relates toFifteen Shades of Red, first part of this series. It will make most sense if you have read that first.





	Growing Pains

Kicker took a long time to choose his name, and his parents didn't mind. They minded a lot of things, actually—when his baby brother was going to wake up, when Uncle Varric would come visit, what Uncle Varric had named the baby (Pipes), and when the new baby was coming.

Pipes became Pipes fast. And Kicker remained Kicker. And the baby kept making them wait and Kicker was _still_ Kicker and Ma and Feather said they didn't mind but what if they did? What if Kicker took too long to choose a name? What would Ma say and do? Kicker didn't know yet.

Ma said Kicker could choose a new name whenever he wanted, but both she and Feather had asked him to think about it for a while. And Kicker had taken them seriously, no matter how much Uncle Varric laughed. Uncle Varric said he was too serious all the time. But names were important, Feather said. Names had power. Names could control and names could love and names could do all sorts of things.

Words were important to Feather. Ma had taught him how to read, and Feather had taught her so many kinds of things about the world, and Ma had put the words to them, the letters. Feather taught Kicker, and Kicker knew all about how frustrated Feather could be when he got the letters wrong. It wasn’t because Feather was angry at his mistakes, but because he felt like he did a bad job teaching. Ma had told him that, not Feather, but Kicker thought he'd rather his father teach him, anyway. Ma was impatient, less with her baby and more with herself for doing a bad job, more than Feather, even.

Sometimes Ma still called him Baby. He was six now. He didn't like it. And when he told her that, every time, she got sad. "I'm not Baby anymore!" he'd shouted this latest time. He'd scuffed up the garden that Ma pretended she didn't care about "except for food," because he'd been chasing after a rabbit, and Ma had thrown up her hands and said, "You should know better, Baby!"

And she'd got so quiet.

Kicker's family was Ma, Feather, three-and-a-half-year-old Pipes, and the baby Ma was growing. Lolli across the pond had a grandmother. She had wrinkles, as many wrinkles as Feather had white lines, maybe more. Lolli asked where his grandmother was and Kicker had said proudly he didn't have one and never would. Lolli said he was lying, everyone had a grandmother, and Kicker had never felt so angry in his life. Kicker wasn't a liar. So he'd chased after the rabbit, because it was better than chasing after Lolli, and then the garden...

Well.

Ma didn't really know what to say when he'd started crying. Kicker liked crying, because Ma would pat his back and hum when he cried, and if Ma wasn't around, then Feather would wrap his arms around him and stay quiet while Kicker clung to his shirt. But this time, Ma had just stood there all awkward and pregnant, arms at her side and not patting him, and that only made him cry harder.

Feather came back later to find Kicker staring at the window, hiding on the opposite end of the cottage from the door to the garden, tears dried up.

"What troubles you?”

Feather talked funny sometimes, not like anyone else's father. Kicker knew some of the languages Feather did, but he made them all sound so elegant. Kicker hoped he could read as well as him some day and sound just as beautiful. Kicker wiped his nose even though it was fine.

"Ma called me Baby."

"I see," Feather said gravely. "Did you want her to call you something different?"

"Kicker," Kicker said automatically, but even as he did, his chest hurt. "I don't know. I don’t think I want to be Kicker anymore."

Feather waited, but too long, because Kicker reached for him. No chair in the back by the stove, so Feather sank to the floorboards with him, Kicker's head nestled under his neck. "I heard Ma say the baby kicks," he told his father. "The baby should try being Kicker. I kicked a lot and I'm tired of it."

Feather stayed quiet. Kicker didn't stop to think it was because he didn't know what to say, or because he was waiting. He didn't think at all. Ma talked all the time, and Feather liked to laugh at the things she said. In reverse, Feather wasn't always very good at talking, even when Ma was laughing a little too much and a little too mean.

Pipes started babbling in his parents' room. Feather's head jerked automatically, and Kicker's arms tightened around his chest. They both heard Ma humming, calming his brother. Or maybe holding him. Or maybe nursing him, even though she'd said he shouldn't be nursed anymore. Pipes was Baby now. Kicker didn't want that name anymore, either. Pipes could have it.

"Mama said you chased a rabbit through the garden," Feather said once Pipes's piping quieted. He always sounded so halting when he said Ma's name, and he didn't even say her name right. Kicker didn't know why, but there was something strong in his voice, something affectionate in the way he said it, like when he called Kicker " _amatulus_ " when he wasn't in trouble. Happy and affectionate, but strong in a different way.

"Yeah. It was a big ol’ rabbit."

"It was an equally big hole you dug up," Feather chuckled. Kicker smiled into his freshly tear-stained shirt. Now he could be proud of it. Feather shifted, and Kicker shifted with him. He was bigger now, but Feather was strong. He didn't see Feather grimace. "What will you do about it?"

Now Kicker drew back. "Why do I need to?"

Ma's voice called, "Because there's a massive hole in the garden, Kicker. You're going to fall in and be eaten by ghouls."

Feather froze, and Kicker knew he was trying not to laugh. He scrambled out of Feather's lap and put his hands on his hips, glaring at his mother in a way that would probably get him in even more trouble. But since he already was…

"I'm brave," he told her. "I'm tough. I can fight off _so_ many ghouls."

"I'm sure you can," Ma agreed, and for a moment, pride swelled in his chest. He had a giant branch he'd taken from Lolli's yard and had been practicing on his own, watching Feather train. One day, he'd wallop Feather with that branch so good that Feather would let him hold his old sword Lethendralis. "But Pipes can't fight off nearly as many ghouls, and he'll have a rough time without you there to help."

Kicker's eyes widened. "Pipes!" He dashed off to check on his baby brother, just in case those ghouls had climbed out while Ma was distracted.

"You could give him a clear task, you know," Feather’s amused but mostly exasperated voice floated behind him, but Kicker wasn't listening. "He's a tenacious lad."

"Wonder where he gets it from.”

Pipes had chubby arms, even though Lolli said they were smaller than her sister’s. Kicker was pretty sure when Pipes got big, he could take Lolli _and_ her sister in a fight all by himself. But for now, he reached for Kicker with his chubby arms with a big smile. He had all his teeth now. Kicker was so proud of him; he’d grown them all himself.

“Kicka!”

“Pipes!”

Pipes reached for him again, and Kicker gave him a squeeze. Ma said Pipes was too big for him to carry anymore. She’d said so as cautiously as Ma could say anything, but Kicker didn’t mind. It only showed just how strong a little kid Pipes was.

That would show Lolli.

So instead of picking Pipes up like he clearly wanted his big brother to do, he tweaked Pipes’s ears and made him squeal. Pipes had floppier and pointier ears than Kicker had as a baby, Ma had told him with a loud laugh. Feather had looked away, but Kicker saw he was only hiding a proud grin for some reason, and judging by the way Ma’s own grin at the time had turned to a smirk, Kicker figured she’d seen it, too.

“Ugh, flaming baby.” Kicker jerked his head up, worried his mother had caught him teasing Pipes, but no, she was still outside the door talking to Feather.

“Don’t call it that.”

“Fenris, when you have a tiny person squishing bigger and bigger every blighted day and kicking around in your vitals, then we can talk. Oh, wait! My vitals! How about you reach in and do your—what did Isabela call it—your magical fisting thing—“

“ _Hawke_. Our children will hear you. You have such a mouth on you—“

“Oh, quiet, handsome elf boy. You like my mouth.”

“Hawke.”

“Don’t you?”

Ma and Feather were going to have a long conversation. Kicker went back to playing with Pipes, but Ma’s words stuck with him. The new baby was still kicking, but Pipes had always been Pipes, never another Kicker. Uncle Varric had been there when he was born, and the name had caught on fast because Ma was screaming and then Pipes was screaming and then everyone laughed afterward in a crying sort of way. But Kicker didn’t remember anyone calling Pipes a kicker when he was still inside.

Pipes wasn’t going to be tough for a very long time, and Kicker would need to be strong until then. And the baby would probably need two brothers to defend it.

Kicker needed a tough name. And he needed it soon.

“Kicker,” Ma called, startling him. That conversation hadn’t been as long as he’d thought. “Come here. We need to talk about the garden.”

Oh. He’d hoped she had forgotten.

“Coming,” he sulked. Pipes nodded somberly. “Two minutes?”

“Two minutes,” Ma agreed.

“In trouble?” Pipes squeaked, messing up his r’s like always.

“No way,” Kicker whispered. Pipes frowned, doubt all over his face in a way that looked uncannily like a Feather expression.

“Yeah, in trouble.”

“It’s okay,” Kicker insisted, and let Pipes pull him in for a hug.

“Sorry,” Pipes apologized, for what, Kicker didn’t know.

“It’s okay.”

“Kicker!” Ma called again. “Time’s up.”

“Uh oh,” Pipes said, eyes widening, eyes the same color as his brother’s. Kicker wondered if the new baby would have amber eyes, too. He let Kicker go like he’d been burned.

“Coming,” Kicker responded again, but this time, he actually left.

Feather wasn’t there anymore. Just Ma. At least she didn’t look angry or quiet anymore.

“Go on outside to the garden,” Ma told him, one hand on her belly, one hand hand gesturing to the door. “You’re gonna learn how to grow things. Help us all out.”

Kicker’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you teaching me?” he asked hopefully, but Ma shook her head.

“Nah, this baby’s not gonna let me. Feather’s good at teaching, right?”

This was true, but Kicker’s shoulders still slumped. “You’re good at gardening, though,” he said, scuffing the floorboards with the leather foot coverings Ma made him wear “so you don’t get a heel full of splinters.”

Feather never wore shoes _ever_. It wasn’t very fair, in Kicker’s opinion, but Feather was “free to do whatever he wanted,” which always made him smile that private little smile that Kicker never understood.

“Feather’s going to do just as good a—well, a _different_ good job.” Kicker grinned at the way Ma caught herself, and she glared when she saw his smile. She bent over as far as the baby would allow to put her finger against his lips. “Don’t tell Feather I said that, okay?”

Kicker giggled, and Ma’s glare melted into a smile. They shared a secret now, and that made him cheerful enough to go face his gardening punishment.

“What are we doing?” Kicker asked Feather, who was staring at the deep hole where the melon vines used to be. Feather exhaled a long sigh that made Kicker suspect he was trying not to say a lot of words in Tevene that Kicker wasn’t allowed to know yet. “Are we going to fix it?”

Now Feather laughed. “No,” he said, and Kicker wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. “ _You_ will fix it, _amatulus_.”

‘Disappointed’ it was.

Feather gave him a tiny shovel and a little metal thing that looked like a hand, and Kicker stared at both of them morosely. They were a lot smaller than the tools Ma used—which Feather was holding now. “Why do I have to fill it in now?”

Feather looked at him for a long while. He probably wasn’t going to use the ghoul excuse. Maybe there was something far worse lurking beneath…

“Because this way, you have a choice. You can decide what to cultivate.” Feather got that funny look, the one where he looked through Kicker instead of at him. The best thing to do in these cases was for Kicker to tilt his head, put enough movement in his father’s field of vision to snap him back into reality politely. It worked, as usual, and Feather was back to blinking at him. “You don’t want weeds. You want fruit.”

“No,” Kicker argued, “ _Ma_ wants fruit.”

Feather gestured to the hole, and they both knelt in front of it. Wordlessly, he started showing Kicker how to move the dug-up dirt back into the hole with the spade, how to rake up the fallen leaves or little roots that had gotten tangled. “You don’t want fruit?”

“I dunno. Maybe someday.”

They worked in silence for a little while longer until Feather sat back on his heels, thinking. Kicker kept filling and raking, thinking his own thoughts.

“Having fun out there?” Ma poked her head through the rickety doorway, distracting both of them.

“Ow!”

Feather flinched at that, seeing Kicker wiggle his thumb and reach to suck on it. He gently guided his son’s finger away from his mouth. “What did you do?”

“It wasn’t _me_. It was this leaf!” Kicker jabbed his injured thumb at a tiny little plant curled up, hiding in the hole he’d been trying to cover. It had small leaves and silvery colors. It shouldn’t have _hurt_.

Ma groaned. “Ugh, that thistle again? I could have sworn I got rid of it for good last month.”

“Did you uproot it completely?”

“Did I—of course I uprooted it completely!”

“Not completely enough, it seems.”

“It’s been here since last winter. I can’t believe it. These things never go away, no matter how hard you try to get rid of them. Andraste’s _flaming_ pyre—”

Kicker, much intrigued by this conversation, shuffled forward to inspect the plant that had so offended his thumb and Ma. It didn’t seem like such a big deal. His thumb didn’t even hurt so much anymore. Just a little. He was reaching for it again when Feather sharply called out, “Watch yourself.”

He obediently retracted his fingers, but continued looking at the plant. “What’s it called again?” he asked Ma. She furrowed her brow.

“Called a ‘thistle.’”

Kicker nodded approvingly. “That’s good. That’s my name.”

A deep, serious silence descended upon the three of them. As loud as Ma or Feather or Pipes or even Kicker could be sometimes, their family had all sorts of silences. Kicker thought this one was a good one.

“Are you certain?” Feather asked. Kicker hesitated.

“I think so.”

Feather looked like he was about to object, but Ma held up a hand and moved closer. Kicker could tell she would have liked to sit down with him, but that baby was so big now.

“That’s a good answer,” she said firmly. “You can never be too sure of anything until you’ve thought about it a really long time, right?”

Ma sounded very wise. “Yeah. I’ll know for sure later.”

“I’m proud of my kid for being brave and telling people when he might not know something yet.” Ma turned to Feather. “Right, Fenris?”

There was no more hesitation in Feather’s face when he said, “Sometimes I forget your mama is the bravest person I know.”

Ma’s eyes softened, in that rare way of hers, and Kicker felt something like pride, too, when he looked at both his parents, caught in their own world. Then, Feather’s mouth split into a grin as he added, “She’s also accomplished in telling people she doesn’t know anything,” and Ma sputtered and reached for him. Feather deftly dodged her swipe.

“Really? _Really_? Dexterity from someone like _you_?”

“At least for the moment,” Feather agreed with a nod at her tummy.

“Next few weeks, more like. Enjoy it while it lasts,” Ma snorted, and before Feather could look too affectionate, she turned back to Kicker. “Hey. Tell me. What’s the name you want to have? Exactly as you want it.”

“Thistle,” he replied immediately.

Ma nodded again. “Why? Just out of curiosity,” she hastened to add.

Kicker jerked his chin at the plant. “It’s tough. You said it’s hard to get rid of, even though you tried a really long time ago and for a really long time. I didn’t even see it and it still was safe. I couldn’t hurt it at all. I’m gonna be that tough.”

Ma and Feather got even quieter, an even better silence. Kicker surprised them by breaking it.

“I gotta fix this hole, right? So I’m gonna fill it in right now. And if my thistle is still here by, uh, you said winter, so…if it’s still here next winter, then I’m Thistle for real.”

Ma looked at Feather with wide eyes, an expression he returned. Maybe they didn’t know what to do when Kicker had actually decided, he thought. Or maybe they thought he had done well.

Kicker frowned at them both, steeling himself, being tough, uncompromising. “ _Tentanda via_ ,” he said stubbornly, making Feather laugh, the sound of which made Ma laugh, and they let Kicker fill in the rest of the hole and watch his thistle grow.

He was scared at first, when he covered the hole with dirt at last, and grass grew back over it, and no silvery-sharp leaves were in sight. Ma told him to be patient, because everything grew on its own schedule. Kicker looked at Pipes, and then the baby still in her, and then his own hands, and decided she was right.

A few flowers sprouted on the tiny mound covering the hole, but they weren’t thistle-flowers, Ma said. She kept reminding him not to spend the whole day staring at it, that it wouldn’t grow any faster with his eyes on it, that he should trust it to be reliable just like everyone else would trust him to be, too. He didn’t tell Lolli anything, even when she came over to trade snared rabbits for apples and peas and sage leaves, and he kept her away from the garden.

A single leaf poked through the soil, which was so incredibly exciting, since the dirt was getting baked in the heat of the sun. Kicker hoped it was going to be okay. That night, little flames lit up the sky like torches in the clouds. Kicker wanted to take Pipes to look at them, because maybe they were the autumn ancestral lanterns, but Ma got angry and pushed them into her room while Feather grabbed his Blade of Mercy and left in full armor. That was what was scariest, then, even scarier than Ma’s anger, because then Kicker realized she was afraid. Ma wasn’t supposed to use her knives, her sister had told her, until the baby was born. But no one could tell Ma to do anything, not even Bethany, and she stayed with Kicker and Pipes and the unborn baby with her back to them and blades toward the door. The sky through the window glowed with Feather’s silver and a scarier red flare, and when they finally heard Feather stomp back in and flash his light under the door so they’d know it was really him, Ma kept them in her room and didn’t let them out until Feather had a bath. “Maleficar,” Feather said to Ma when he thought Kicker and Pipes couldn’t hear, and then Kicker knew why Feather needed a bath.

Uncle Varric sat with him for an hour when he came to visit, staring at the leaves together. “We all knew you’d be tough as nails, kid,” Uncle Varric told him after a while, “with parents like yours.” Kicker agreed they were probably the toughest people in the world, and Uncle Varric pretended to take offense, turning away from Kicker every time he tried to give him an apologetic hug. Uncle Varric always made Kicker laugh so hard; he was only “Uncle” because he’d told Ma he’d never get the chance to hear that from anyone else. Feather had thought it was too “kind” to let Ma complain, flustered but pleased though she was. Uncle Varric said he was visiting just to hang out and see how Kicker was doing, but when Bethany showed up later in the week, Kicker figured he was here to see the baby and give it a name.

Kicker was weeding the vegetable patch under Ma’s scrutiny, trying to keep an eye on the thistle leaves, when she suddenly shouted a word in Common he _definitely_ wasn’t supposed to know. The loud sound made him flinch, and he was about to apologize to the carrots and peas on Ma’s behalf when she practically roared for Feather, Uncle Varric, and her sister. Feather was away “cleaning the forest of Venatori,” Uncle Varric said, although Kicker didn’t know what that meant.

“Then go _find_ him!” Ma screamed, clutching her stomach, and oh, now Kicker _did_ know what _that_ meant.

“I’ll get Pipes!” he shouted, and he thought he saw Ma nod through her grimace before she was swept away by Bethany. Pipes had woken up from his nap and was making confused little sounds, but he brightened when his brother stormed into the room.

“Hi, Kicka.”

“Pipes, we’re gonna go play outside,” Kicker told him, and Pipes nodded again, in that grave, Feather-like way. Pipes walked way slower than he did, but he was good at holding onto his hand, and didn’t object when Kicker dragged him through the back door they weren’t supposed to use except for emergencies, because Feather said it was very well-hidden. But Kicker knew how to seal the wood back up and redo the traps without catching his fingers, so as soon as Pipes was out of the way, he took him off to play, hopefully far from Ma when she started screaming. Or cursing. She’d done a lot of both when Pipes was born.

Deeper into the fields, Kicker saw the top of Uncle Varric’s head, but of course he noticed his father first. Feather was in his black armor, a sharp contrast to how pale his face was now, but none of it was really noticeable under the red, red, red blood splattered _everywhere_.

It was on his Blade of Mercy. It was smeared on his armor, even in the dark places. It was on his hands. There was even a little on his jaw and ear, an ear that looked so much like his and Pipes’s and less like Ma’s. He didn't look like he'd _cleaned_ the forest of anything at all.

Kicker had seen something he didn’t think he was supposed to see. And Feather and Uncle Varric were coming this way.

His first instinct was to take Pipes, who hadn’t noticed either of them yet, and run. To tell Pipes a lie about hide-and-chase, to pretend he didn’t know anything later, to pretend he hadn’t seen his father or his uncle like _that_ because yes, Bianca had a little red on her, too, and—

Kicker remembered the thistle growing under the pile by their little house. It was still there. It probably hadn’t chosen to wind up growing there, but it did, and it was doing a good job of staying there.

“Pipes,” Kicker said slowly, and he shifted just enough as he spoke that Pipes would have to move to look at him. Pipes moved a little, _just enough_ , just perfectly, so that he wouldn’t see any piece of Feather or Uncle Varric’s body. “Pipes, we’re gonna make flower chains, okay? We can make one for everyone. Uncle Varric, and Feather, and Ma, and Bethany, and maybe the baby, too.”

“The baby?” Pipes’s mouth dropped open, and Kicker forced a smile for his brother’s solemn amazement. Feather and Varric had caught sight of the two of them, and Kicker froze, worried that they’d come over, worried that he’d see that red up close. But no, they just looked at him and his oblivious brother, Feather’s expression as stunned and concerned as Pipes’s. And Uncle Varric nodded, just once, approving of Kicker, because Kicker was strong now. And they kept moving back home, red glistening in the sunshine.

Kicker turned away, relieved to do so. “Yeah, the baby. If we make all those flower chains, the baby will probably be here when we’re done.”

Pipes smiled, huge and bright, because he’d never seen blood in his life. He plopped straight down and began reaching for all the flowers he could find. Kicker showed him how to tie the stems, even though Pipes wasn’t very good at it, and hoped his thistle would help protect Ma and Feather to give him another family member to love.

Later, after Kicker told Uncle Varric about his thistle growing bigger and bigger, that it had gotten so tall the baby probably was more interested in coming out to see it than the boring peas his Ma was making him grow, he felt very proud of himself. Because his sister’s name was Sweetpea, at least for now, and Kicker had helped Uncle Varric name her that, because sweet peas were so much better than regular peas, and Ma had done a way better job growing his green-eyed little sister than Kicker had growing those dumb vegetables.

Ma wouldn’t sit outside with him and Sweetpea and the thistle after a while, though. She said it was too cold for the baby. Kicker thought Ma was the one who was too cold, but when he expressed this to Feather, he’d only smirked and said that was “unlikely.” Kicker knew his ma was supposed to have come from colder countries than Nevarra, but she had to wear shoes all the time even though Kicker’s feet were just as barefoot and callused as Feather’s. Even Pipes didn’t wear shoes anymore, partially because Ma stopped trying, mostly because Feather didn’t care and thought shoes were “impractical” for more elf-blooded people anyway.

Feather said that all babies were indeed very vulnerable, and even if Kicker secretly thought Feather was lying and that he shivered in the snow to make Ma feel better, he didn’t say so. If Feather didn’t believe in Sweetpea’s capabilities, well, Pipes was getting bigger, and Kicker was getting stronger, and his thistle was both. They’d all protect the baby together.

The thistle was almost as tall as him when they all had to run.

Pipes was the first to hear the crashing, or at least the first of the two of them. Feather already had his sword in hand when Kicker followed Pipes out of their room, no shirt on, just his leggings, his lines glowing so bright Kicker couldn’t look at them.

“Feather!” Pipes yelled over the distant crashing and sparking sounds. Feather whirled on him, eyes pure white light, muscles taut, lines and skin ghostlike, and even though Kicker had seen him like this once before, it was still only _once_ , and Pipes never had.

“ _Get to the cellar_.”

Pipes inhaled on a broken gasp, wobbling backwards, but Kicker’s numb limbs still managed to catch him. He started dragging Pipes towards the cellar near the secret exit, and just as he wondered where Sweetpea was, Ma burst out of her room with the baby swaddled in her arms. And then Kicker’s arms were full of baby, and Pipes had recovered and was helping him while Ma hissed instructions at them: Go to the cellar. Stay quiet. Stay warm. Remember where the food and exit are. Don’t open the door.

And then she left them there, hardly clad in anything more than a tunic as she grabbed her daggers off the weapon rack, calling after Feather, “Fenris, you _fucking_ idiot, where the _shit_ is your chestplate?”

“ _Fool_ woman, you’re the one—“

Kicker didn’t wait to eavesdrop. He shoved the rug aside, worried about helping Pipes go down the stairs while he held Sweetpea, but Pipes had practiced this before and had no problem pushing himself down, step by step by step.

He managed to close the cellar trapdoor by bumping his head against it a few times, knowing full well he couldn’t successfully cover it with the rug again.

It was cold down there.

They sat in the cellar for hours and hours, or maybe days, or weeks. Kicker was sure it had been at least a whole year. There had never been a longer forever ever in anyone’s life. Pipes sat huddled next to him, and Sweetpea lay nestled in his arms, blinking confused, sleepy green eyes at him with every thousand-year second.

Clanking and shattering and fighting and flames roared above them. Sometimes, someone shouted a battle cry, something hoarse that resonated deep in his bones, and Kicker could tell it was Feather’s voice.

He didn’t know how he knew, really. Because he’d never heard his father sound like that.

At one point, Sweetpea started to cry. Kicker only caught it in time because he remembered when Pipes was her age what that scrunched-up looked meant. She was rubbing at her pointy ears—not droopy at all—so Kicker knew she was tired, not hungry. So he let her suckle his finger, he rocked her a little, he let Pipes pat her swaddled belly in silence, and soon Sweetpea was fast asleep.

Kicker didn’t know babies could snore. It sounded so tiny. Maybe it would have been cute if he hadn’t been so scared everyone outside could hear it.

The cellar became silent. So silent Pipes shut up next to him, barely breathing, because both of them knew it wasn’t a good kind of silence.

And then the cellar got warm.

And even then, Pipes stayed quiet, and Sweetpea stayed asleep. All Kicker could do was squeeze them tight, all three of them together. He couldn’t hear Feather’s enraged scream anymore, but he did smell that sharp flare his lines had sometimes, and occasionally, Blade of Mercy’s very specific _clang_ tone. Feather was probably just getting tired, but that wasn’t as comforting a thought as he’d hoped.

He had no idea where Ma was. Kicker had seen Ma train before, and he knew she was as scary silent with her daggers as she was when she caught him stealing fresh bread, but now he wished she could be just a little louder so her three babies would know she was okay.

The trapdoor to the cellar budged, just a little.

Kicker and Pipes froze. Sweetpea stirred, and Kicker’s heart stopped even more than he thought it could, but she stayed asleep and ignorant.

“Sweet Andraste. They’re all here.” A raspy and exhausted voice called down to them, frantic. _Ma_. “Come up, please, come up. Fast.”

“Hurry,” Feather’s equally raspy voice demanded. Pipes bounded up the stairs faster than Kicker and Sweetpea could manage. Feather was already holding him by the time Kicker joined them, and Kicker prepared to burrow into Ma’s arms and Sweetpea’s soft hair, but then he looked around the house.

There was no house.

There were some charred walls still, and the trapdoor and rigged secret exit clearly remained. But the rugs and blankets hiding them didn’t exist anymore. Only a couple of cast iron pans, the sturdiest of Feather and Ma’s armor, and the few enchanted toys they had remained.

“Thank the Maker,” Ma was whispering as she pulled him into her grasp, ignoring his horrified stupor. “Thank the Maker. Thank the Maker.”

Feather didn’t say anything at all. Pipes had started to cry, but he didn’t tell him to quiet down, didn’t tell him anything. He just held on tight, even as he got to his feet. Pipes was heavier now, but he hadn’t seemed to notice _all the blood on both of them_ , and Feather didn’t appear to be overly strained.

“Hawke…”

“I know. We need to leave. Okay.”

“Hawke.”

Ma sniffed, just once, but when she pulled away from him, Kicker couldn’t see any tears. Sweetpea had woken up for real this time, and Ma tugged her away. “Thank you,” she said to Kicker, but it wasn’t desperate or needy, but the thanks she would have given to a good and wise soldier. He was sure of that.

Ma was so capable, splattered in blood as she was. He couldn’t help but be proud. Afraid, but proud of his fear, because Ma knew he was capable, too.

“Okay,” Ma said. “Grab what you can in the next two minutes.” She smiled at him, but it was sharper than he was used to. “Pretend you’ll get in big trouble with us if you take longer.”

Ma was probably trying to make a joke. But Kicker didn’t need any false motivation. He was gone long before she had descended into the cellar to get food.

Pipes, although he was getting older, didn’t have a lot of playthings that meant a lot to him. Even if he had, he was hiccuping too much, trying to stop crying too much, to sort through anything. He followed Feather around, who was strapping all his remaining weapons onto his back with a rapid ease that made Kicker wonder how old his parents were before they loved each other. Or even met.

What kind of life had they had?

Lethendralis hadn’t survived, Kicker noted unhappily as he looked for something, anything to pack. He found its hilt and melted blade trapped in the weapon rack. He’d never gotten to use it to beat Feather in a sparring match. He wouldn’t have anything of his own to take.

“Those elven fanatics will be back,” Feather said to Ma. There couldn’t be any more private conversations within these burnt walls. “They won’t care for pointed ears any more than a human would.”

“The _fuck_ is going on?” Ma swore, and Feather cast a quick glance Kicker’s way. Kicker hurried his useless scrounging. “As if the rest of the world doesn’t hate itself enough.”

“Where shall we go?”

His parents got quiet then. Even Pipes piped down. It sounded like that was something they’d discussed before. Maybe not now, or recently. Like an old conversation.

“In the country. Deeper into Nevarra. We’ll see how far this goes. If the Inquisition can help. I don’t know.”

Feather made some sort of noise, maybe in assent, then raised his voice, as if his sons couldn’t hear him. “Your time is almost finished. Hurry.”

Pipes scurried back to Feather’s side, and Kicker was prepared to follow, but then a truly horrible thought occurred to him, looking around his burnt-up house. He dashed outside, ignoring Ma’s furious, terrified shout. His heart pumped so fast.

The garden was dead. Beyond dead. Ashes upon ashes. Carrot tops shriveled up. The peas just dust. Vines snapping in the smoky breeze. Kicker nearly choked on his own breath.

But there, standing tall, was the thistle. Battered and burnt, tips blackened instead of silver. But proud, and strong, and tough, and even though the awful wind blew, it stayed upright.

He coughed, then sniffed, then burst into tears. He sank to his knees in the cracked soil, bawling into his arms. Ma, Pipes, and Feather holding Sweetpea dashed outside to find him kneeling in front of his namesake, sobbing into his dirty palms.

Feather joined him first, tucking Sweetpea under his neck and placing his hand close on his son’s head. Then Ma, and Pipes, because, as he learned later, when Feather decided it was okay to wait before running, that meant he should be trusted. Still sobbing, he leaned into his mother’s embrace, ignoring the horrible ways her shirt clung to her skin.

“Thistle,” she whispered into his ear, voice cracking on the last syllable, and even though it had the same tone as “Baby” did, it rang so true, so earnest, so loving that Thistle knew he needed it.

But they couldn’t cry forever. Feather helped him up. Ma took his hand. Pipes took his other hand. Sweetpea fell asleep. And Thistle ran with his family to somewhere they could all be stronger together.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Tentanda via_ : "the way must be tried"
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> anyone who thinks gardening is fun clearly never had to do it as a childhood punishment
> 
> ~~(next in the series we turn to our favorite Warden Bethany)~~ we will get to Warden Bethany at some point in the near future! for now, I'm going to show you the stuff I've, yanno, actually done
> 
> Come hang out with me at my Pillowfort account at [Nenalata](https://www.pillowfort.social/Nenalata)! Help me move over by filling it up with more content about good aging dragons.


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